Pat Gunn (dachte) wrote,
Pat Gunn

First ray from tomorrow

I have a vision of a future, of what I dream for my philosophy. Amajor change, if my dreams hold true. I am tainted. I am not whatI want to be -- I have little place in the world I would create.This society has stomped on me, ripped my flesh, stolen my dignity,and spilled my blood. My spikes are out. I am going to fix things,or at least put forth a mighty effort to do so. It is an all outwar, in a sense. So much needs to come down. So much needs to goup, or be purified. My sufferings have instilled in me a psychologicaldrive to fix things, a trustworthy constant anger, a sobbing passionfor those that suffer, a deep and mellow cynicism, an urge to fix.I RIPPED THE SIDE OFF OF THAT HOUSE, WATCHED THE WALLS TUMBLE, ANDLAUGHED, and then REDID THINGS THE WAY THEY SHOULD'VE BEEN, WITH SOLID,SIMPLE, TRUSTWORTHY, perhaps paranoid, UNDECORATED AND HONEST WALLS.The economics, the greed, the snobbery, the US and THEM, the NATION,these jars of exotic spices that YOU PEOPLE WOULD NEVER EVEN USE,YOU JUST KEEP THEM AS A STUPID STATUS SYMBOL, they are SMASHED ONTHE FLOOR, GLASS EVERYWHERE, YOUR FAT FEET BLEED ON THE GROUND.I am a lion, and we'll need plenty more lions, but the land shallbe safe for .. lambs? No, yaks. I can never regain my innocence.But maybe once religion is dead, nations breathe their last breath,and my intellectual friends have removed the parasites from theirbacks, those ideas that hold us all back, when the world is changed,maybe people won't need to deal with the load I bear. Perhaps theycan be simple, beautiful, terrible beings. Pure in their anger,innocent, honest, completely unaware of the inner delusions andcorruptions I must struggle with. No endless stream of inner complaintsfrom an inner Buddha, an inner Christian, an inner Nietzsche, aninner mystic. I am like a shaman -- all these seeds I have plantedin myself, to help me understand and conquer, and yet their thornstwist my skin. I am enlightened, tortured; melted flesh knows nobounds. But I hope, for the future, that this is not all that wecan be. A vision -- I was in Texas, visiting some relatives.Two boys, young and sharp. And yet, their parents had already inflictedthem with Christianity. My wizened hand brushed their already-implantedphilosophy, confirming the presense of the old enemy in them. I couldcure them, but they would just be infected again by their parents.It would do me no good, and I would just raise hairs. Helpless. Likean Israeli in Palestine, or a Palestinian in Israel. There are caseswhere I would sacrifice myself, but not here.

How strange. Puzzlement. Acceptance of chaos. I tilt my head, and say"That's funny" "That's odd" "Oh well". Anger? Peace? War? Dedication?Admiration? Smooth skin? It says something about me that my expressionshave begun to shape my face, but my stomach is still the smooth idealthat I want to see on faces. Uncomplicated. Obsidian. Cloud white.Not marble.

Tags: poetry

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